Greatness
by Julia Claire
Summary: Rubeus Hagrid was not made to do great things.


**Disclaimer: Anything you recognize isn't mine.**

_"We can do no great things, only small things with great love."_

_-Mother Teresa_

Greatness

He'd always been a simple man – didn't have a lot, didn't need a lot. He was no Albus Dumbledore, no Harry Potter – though he loved them dearly. He was no genius, no extraordinary wizard – he had been thrown out of Hogwarts, after all, at the age of thirteen. The only thing that had ever set him apart, made him stand out, was his size, his bulk, and the obvious heritage that came with it.

He was not a hero. But that was what it was.

-x-

The fall night was crisp and cold, the wind fast and furious, so high above the Muggle world that had no idea of what had just happened, these past twenty-four hours. It was unfathomable, to think that those people, so far below him, had no idea that Lily and James Potter were dead, that _You-Know-Who himself_ had been vanquished… And of course, they were completely ignorant of the most surprising of all: that this baby – this child in his arms – was the one who had stopped him.

Tears froze on Hagrid's ruddy face as he looked down at the boy, who – despite being carried by a giant man on a motocycle, despite the fact that his mother had just been murdered in front of him – was wide-eyed, but quiet, even gurgling a little…

Harry Potter. This boy would, doubtless, grow up to be some sort of hero, a celebrity, famous wherever he went, with that lightning-shaped scar he bore on his forehead. But all Hagrid could think, as they flew over the flickering lights of some Muggle city – Bristol, he reckoned – and the child's eyes fluttered closed, was that he was glad it was him, Hagrid, who Dumbledore had trusted enough to go and rescue Harry from that broken house…

How much he wished that he would always be able to keep this little boy safe.

-x-

It was fitting, perhaps, in the poetic way of writers, that the two of them should leave Number Four, Privet Drive, on the very motorbike they had entered it. Yet it was different now, for Harry, of course, could no longer fit in his arms, could no longer fall asleep under that stars, unaware of what had happened to him…

And then the Death Eaters came, shooting bright lights that were nothing like those of Bristol… and Hagird and Harry ducked and spun and flew as fast as they could, and Hagrid forgot that shard of such an old memory, except for the tiny, distant echo that he hoped that he would not fail to keep Lily and James's son safe.

-x-

He could not help but think that he had failed, holding the body in his arms.

He had seen it all, seen Harry walking into that grove, wand arm down, not even moved to defend himself, such a martyr, like his mother had been before him.

(Those same green eyes already staring at something Hagrid couldn't see.)

And he, Hagrid, cried as he walked, holding Harry in his arms, the boy who had been his friend, who had been a hero for all the wizarding world, who had been a baby in his arms.

But he was a baby no longer, for his face was smeared with blood and dirt and his chest did not move, lifeless... And he shuddered, hardly able to even really look at the body. He could only feel its weight, so much heavier than that of the infant he had once held... Yet Hagrid was not sure that the added burden was simply because the boy had grown – surely, comparatively, it should hardly matter to a man of his size – or the awful death, the loss, the tragedy, the lump in his throat, the tears in his beard, that seemed to weigh him down.

His steps were never so heavy as they were that day, as they walked Harry out of the forest.

(Yet, still, he could not regret that it was he, Hagrid, who had been captured, he who had witnessed the death of his little friend, if indeed it was something that must happen... It was without a doubt the only order You-Know-Who gave that he was ever grateful for, that it was he who should carry the boy back to the castle that had been home to both of them.)

-x-

He was not made – he reckoned, sitting in the Great Hall with Grawp after the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter, alive, well, only a few tables over, the body of Tom Riddle (the boy who'd gotten him expelled, the man who had become the most deadly Dark Wizard of all time) off in a side chamber – to do great things. There was never an orb in the Hall of Prophecies concerning him, there was never anyone who stood up in a crowd and said, "There's Rubeus Hagrid!" – just maybe, "Why the hell is that man so big?"

But if there was any such thing as fate or destiny or whatever, for such a simple man as he, he thought that his was this – to carry Harry Potter on those three occasions where he could not carry himself.


End file.
